


Ready, Fire, Aim

by skyline



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Steve doesn't feel like he belongs, and dates a lot of people, but Tony helps convince him he fits, that's the story folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-08
Updated: 2016-12-08
Packaged: 2018-09-07 05:58:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8785804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyline/pseuds/skyline
Summary: Steve did not fight to be remembered. He fought because – to live, to laugh, to love – these were the things he didn’t want humanity to forget. And they haven’t, so that’s…good.He thinks it’s good. It’s certainly not bad. But it makes him think of his mother’s stories, of children stolen away and replaced with someone who was never meant to breathe their air or pace their ground.Steve’s the changeling now.





	

When Steve was young, his mother would tell him stories she’d picked up in her girlhood.

Her favorites all came from the motherland.

Ireland was not Sarah Rogers’s home, and it certainly was never Steve’s, but his grandparents’ shadows lingered. They conditioned their daughter to love the country they’d fled – so she did. Steve’s mother referred to the lush, green paradise across the sea with fondness she usually reserved only for old friends.

Secretly, Steve knew she longed to leave New York, to be rid of the factories and the grime and the ever-growing pollution of the five boroughs. But chasing down her birthright was a pipe dream.

Out of respect, Steve never mentioned it, and his mother never would.

She hinted, though.

Steve suffered a sickness or three that required confinement and rest. He had asthma, diabetes, and angina that made his heart thumpthumpthump. Tuberculosis was the worst, the persistent cough shaking through his entire body every hour of the day. He hurt in his lungs, breaths scraping him raw, and he didn’t think he’d make it. His doctor’s prognosis was poorer than poor.

But Steve’s mother would not give up on her only son.

Despite warnings to keep her distance, she sat at Steve’s bedside, stroking his sweat-slick hair. Her hands were callused and rough, cool against his fevered forehead. Her voice lilted while she spun tales to guard him through the night.

She spoke of princes, of adventure, of kisses sweeter than chocolate. She spoke of rolling hills and rocks and cliff faces that sheered down at the steepest angles.

She spoke of the fair folk, too.

Those were Steve’s favorite. He always appreciated the element of fantasy, of _danger_.

In those stories, there were kings and queens, lords and ladies. There was the Wild Hunt.

And there were the changelings.

Children, stolen from their parents in the night and replaced with someone not quite like them. Strangers in strange lands, with unnatural abilities.

They caused chaos wherever they went.

Now, Steve was never much for chaos. He’d missed the first great war; the anti-Kraut sentiment and the influenza epidemics mere shadows in the memories of his youth. But Bucky always said that since God gypped the two of them of their opportunity to kill the Kaiser’s men, it was only right he saw fit to raise holy hell twice.

It was a blessing and a curse.

All those people dead, and all the while, here’s Steve Rogers having the time of his life. Becoming who he was always meant to be.

Maybe that’s why, in the end, it was all snatched away; the war, the people he loved, and even Bucky. One day he’s flying a plane straight down into storm tossed waves, and then the next, the world’s a different place entirely.

In the places he ached, people now stand laughing.

In the places he bled, there is life.

Steve did not fight to be remembered. He fought because – to live, to laugh, to love – these were the things he didn’t want humanity to forget. And they haven’t, so that’s…good.

He thinks it’s good.

It’s certainly not bad. But.

It makes him think of his mother’s stories, of children stolen away and replaced with someone who was never meant to breathe their air or pace their ground.

Steve’s the changeling now.

* * *

 

“Heads up. someone’s in trouble,” Tony announces, strolling into the living room like he built it. With his own hands.

Which he did.

He’s such a showoff.

“Banner did it,” Clint calls lazily, despite the fact that he has no idea what _it_ is. Tony gets irritable about things as large as accidentally reprogramming the microwave to such a degree that he can’t seem to fix it (“ _Shut up, Steve, obviously I can fix it_ ,” he’d snapped) to things as minor as disrupting a puddle of oil in his garage (“ _I had things exactly the way I liked them_!”), which mostly makes it seem like he enjoys being grouchy and eccentric.

Knowing Tony, he probably does.

“I didn’t,” Bruce says. “Unless it involves reworking your code on Dummy, and then I did.”

Tony glares.

Bruce says, “What? He kept _watching_ me. It was creepy.”

“He’s a robot arm, muffin. He doesn’t have eyes.”

“Still.” Bruce glances towards Natasha and Clint for support. Neither of them pay him any mind, too caught up in their Bachelorette marathon. “It gave me the heebie jeebies.”

“That’s not why anyone is in trouble, although if you touch my robots again, I’ll hide your granola bars.” Tony does a very good job of glaring down his nose in a way that is neither intimidating nor all that impactful.

Bruce shrugs. “They’re for the big guy. I’ve got a nut allergy.”

“Tony,” Steve interjects, because he is the boss and also maybe needs to find out if Tony discovered that he touched the toaster oven. A bit. He doesn’t think it’s broken? Probably. “Why are we in trouble?”

For a second his mind flashes back to the past year, to the rift between heroes and the trouble he caused. Coming back was…not easy.

But it’s not that. Tony sniffs. “NASA put the Voyager recordings on SoundCloud and no one _told_ me.”

To Natasha, Steve hisses, “Voyager’s the spaceship, right? The, er…probe?”

She nods minutely.

There are some people in a hot tub on TV. They are doing fascinating things with their mouths that would make Steve feel a little overwhelmed if he was doing them, on the TV and everything.

Natasha does not look like she has such qualms.

“That’s old news, Bruce says. “They did that in like, 2012.”

“And you didn’t tell me,” Tony repeats, entirely too hurt. Like a puppy. Like a bearded, mischievous, incomprehensible puppy.

“Why is that you act like you don’t care at all when it comes to important things, but get so excited over…over, trivia?” Steve asks with a bit of wonder. “I don’t understand you.”

“That’s me. A mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a smoking hot body. Why, what important things am I supposed to be paying attention to?”

Steve waves the papers he’s been diligently working on in the air.

He hates paperwork. He hates filling out stupid redundant forms, and he really hates that his teammates never want to help, because _responsibility_.

“Ohhhh, yeah, _no_.” Tony purses his lips, delighted with himself. “I’ve got a date, so that’s a thing that I’m just…not ever gonna do. Sorry, Cap.”

Steve’s eyebrows furrow. “You’re impossible.”

“Impossibly awesome. That’s me,” Tony agrees. “Now. I’ve got to go see a lady named Svetlana about possibly getting naked with me.”

Lazily, Natasha advises, “She’s a corporate spy.”

“That is just…stereotyping your own people is what it is,” he grumps back. 

“Doesn’t make her less of a spy.”

“Okay, so yeah, she’s doing some espionage work for Hammer.” Tony shifts into a grin and shrugs, like it’s all part of a game he’s very used to. “Doesn’t mean she won’t look good naked. If she does manage to assassinate me, get Wanda to hex her or something, okay?”

And with that, he hops in the elevator, humming happily to himself.

Natasha snorts, but doesn’t look at all bothered by any of what just happened.

Steve though, Steve is confused. “I thought Tony was back with Miss Potts.”

“They broke up. Again,” Natasha says tonelessly, eyes still glued to the TV. “Good riddance.”

Steve objects, “That’s a bit cold.”

She flicks her gaze towards him for the briefest, deadliest of seconds, perhaps debating how to slit his throat.

Benevolently, Clint takes it upon himself to explain. “Stark Industries is SHIELD 2.0’s primary civilian contractor. Their stock dropped every time Tony and Pepper fought in public. When stock’s down, Tony has to focus on churning out product for the public sector to appease SI’s Board of Directors. He spends less time working on SHIELD’s tech.”

“Can’t the military pick up the slack?” Steve asks. “There are other contractors.”

“Sure,” Clint agrees.

Natasha spares Steve a sharp-toothed grin. “But everyone knows Tony Stark makes the best toys.”

“So now Tony is just…”

“Dating, Cap. The word is dating,” Clint says. Then he tacks on, “Oh, mercy me, is the big bad Iron Man offending your virtue again?”

“Gee willikers,” Natasha deadpans.

“Leave him be,” Bruce adds helpfully. Then, less helpfully, he says, “If you’re not careful, he’ll get the vapors.”

Alright, so Steve will admit that when he first met Tony, he might have entertained the idea that the other man was a pompous, sleazy jackhole. Then he made the mistake of telling Clint, who proceeded to dance around him singing, “I’m Captain America, golly gosh, I can’t say bad words. Jackhole. Pee pee head. Buttface!”

To be fair, Clint had a fair amount of whiskey at that point, and Steve threw a plate at him when it got to be too much.

He missed, of course, because master assassins have this thing where they’ve got effortless grace, and then Steve mostly ended up feeling bad when the fine china shattered against the wall.

However, the lesson there was Steve deciding he was never telling Clint anything ever again, because now he’s stuck with…this. He sighs. “You can stop now.”

“I’m just saying,” Clint says, “Dating is a thing.”

“A thing you should try sometime, maybe,” Natasha adds in a lazy drawl.

Clint nods. “Girls are a lot freer these days, you know? Spandex isn’t just for women anymore, and you can totally get away with sex before marriage.”

Steve rolls his eyes.

He knew girls in his day. Girls with curls and fine braziers, girls with curves and ruby-red lips and hips that swung when they walked.

He won’t tell Clint that, because it’s none of Clint’s beeswax.

Steve doesn’t kiss and tell.

* * *

 

To be fair, the first person Steve was ever dated with any regularity wasn’t…exactly…a girl.

In that she was a he, and possessed male parts and everything.

Details.

When Steve was younger, he’d kissed a few dames, but the whole _love_ bit was elusive. He wanted to meet someone like in his mother’s fairytales; the instant connection, the undying devotion.

Steve didn’t need orchestral crescendos or a million roses, just someone who knew him like the back of their own hand.

Instead, courting felt like a bizarre ritual; Steve liked someone, and they didn’t like him back, or vice versa. Everyone he got to know seemed less exciting than they were upon first impression. Everyone who got to know him seem to like him less than when they’d started.

The whole process was inevitably awkward and not very fun.

The only person who broke the mold was Bucky.

Bucky, who was constantly telling him to soldier up and give it a try.

Bucky, who was jostling him off the curb on the way back from a smoky, crowded bar, where Steve had completely bombed at meeting anyone.

“You’re a charming guy, Rogers. Would it _kill_ you to act like it?”

“It might,” Steve replied, jumping back onto the sidewalk. He kept his eyes down, watching for cracks, although he couldn’t break a dead mother’s back. Bucky shouldered him again, knocking him off the curb. “Bully.”

“You like it.” Bucky grinned, quick and sharp. “I’m looking out for you. When I go off to war, don’t wantcha to be a ripe old bachelor.”

“So. You’re going off to war?” Steve ignored the sting, feigning a smile.

It was too wan. It didn’t fool anyone.

Bucky shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’m going to try.”

“How can you not?” Steve asked, and if he sounded bitter, he didn’t mean to.

He’d tried to enlist twice now, to no avail. He had no plans to give up, but. He wasn’t sure if he was ever going to step foot on foreign soil.

It was one of the many perks of spending half his life bedridden.

Bucky, by contrast, was healthy. Strong. The Army would be lucky to have him.

“Hey. You’ll make it in.” Bucky grabbed the crook of his arm, pulling him back up onto the curb. “Have faith.”

Steve did, precisely because Bucky commanded it.

If his best friend believed in him, then Steve _had_ to believe in himself.

He took a deep, calming breath. They walked on through the softly falling powder, the sky above a low ceiling of slate gray.

Brooklyn in the forties was a different place.

There was a lot less plaid, for one. The buildings were shorter; the street lamps were dimmer. The snow took longer to grow dark and dirty.

It was the only home Steve had ever known, so distant from the rolling, green hills of Ireland that it was hard to imagine they existed.

He tasted the air, the snow and the filth combined. Then, cutting his eyes towards Bucky, Steve said, “Send me a postcard when you deploy.”

“One for every day of the week,” Bucky promised. He paused in his steps, pulling Steve to a halt with him. “Sure you’ll be okay without me?”

Dryly, Steve shot back, “I think I’ll survive.”

“How’d I get so used to taking care of you?” Bucky inclined his head, grinning. His eyes dance with the same familiar spark of mischief that always gets Steve into trouble. “You snuck up on me, Steve.”

Steve wasn’t sure what that meant. He’d tilted his head to match Bucky, the closeness between their bodies comfortable, familiar.

He inquired, “Is that the worst thing in the world?”

He didn’t expect it when Bucky answered with a kiss.

The soft, dry brush of his lips was foreign, a border in their friendship that Steve never knew could be crossed.

He kissed back, too tentative, but smiling against Bucky’s mouth.

Steve asked, “What do you think you’re doing?”

Hoarsely, Bucky murmured, “Making sure you miss me.”

Steve couldn’t imagine he wouldn’t.

Of course, that was back when Steve was still scrawny, sickly, and Bucky seemed larger than life.

That was back when Steve still felt like he belonged.

* * *

 

“How’s it hanging, Sleeping Beauty?”

Steve starts, because that’s all wrong. He pricked his finger and fell asleep, but no one fought through thorny briars for his honor.

He did not wake from the ice with a kiss.

(Perhaps it would have been easier that way, if a shining hero stood at his bedside, the very first voice he heard. Their sword would glint in red and gold, but no, that’s not what happened at all.)

He stares blearily up at Tony and realizes it’s not even a crack at his long incarceration beneath the ice; he fell asleep on the couch. Again.

“Tony?”

Steve rubs at his eyes, his mind still tangled up in a dream. Bucky was there, he thinks. But that makes no sense, because Bucky is locked in a brand new SHIELD facility, undergoing multiple psychological evaluations until he’s deemed fit for active duty.

Steve couldn’t leave him in the ice in Wakanda forever. The cold gives him nightmares.

What’s more, the man that Bucky is now has never looked so light or so free.

Steve touches his lips all the same.

“I’m pretty sure I supply you a bed for exactly this reason.” Tony puts his hands on his hips and glances around the living room. In the flickering light of the television, he’s all dark angles, the spitting image of his father. “I tried to bring a girl home tonight. Do you know what happened?”

“What?” Steve croaks, thinking of Howard, thinking of Bucky. He misses them both with an ache that makes his chest gape wide.

“She saw Captain America passed out on the sofa, and it killed the mood.”

“Oh.” Steve stretches his legs against the couch cushions and does his best to appear apologetic. “Tony, I’m really-“

“Save it, I’m busting your chops. I left her in the town car with Happy. He keeps staring at her legs in the rearview mirror; it’s probably going to cause an accident. Scoot over.” Steve does, confused, while Tony proceeds to make himself comfortable in the spot Steve’s head only recently vacated. He squirms over the cushion, announcing, “It’s warm. Good job, Cap. I knew there was a reason I kept you around.”

“Glad to be of service.”

Tony makes a play for the remote control, which is squeezed somewhere between Steve’s butt and the couch’s arm.

He clicks through the channels in a seemingly arbitrary manner, landing on a movie where a girl with a head full of curls is crawling on her hands and knees. He asks, “You seen this before?”

“No,” Steve replies, still groggy. “What is it?”

“One more classic to add to your repertoire.” Tony kicks his feet out onto the coffee table. “But if you ever tell Clint we watched Dirty Dancing together, I will mount your shield on a rocket and send it straight to Pluto.”

“I make it a habit not to tell Clint anything. Ever.”

“Wise plan.” Settling back against the couch, Tony knocks their shoulders together. “We should watch this from the beginning sometime.”

Steve can feel his warmth, radiating out from the other side of the couch. Tony smells like Tony, but also like a woman’s perfume. The date must have gone well.

“I’d like that.”

He watches the screen, not totally sure what’s going on, but enjoying the company. It’s nice not to be alone, after he wakes. His dreams are too strange these days, filled with the ghosts of people who are long since dead. They echo with gunfire and the glacial crack of ice breaking to pieces, the haunting melody of whalesong and the drinking songs the Howling Commandos would belt out fireside.

His sleep hasn’t been restful for a long, long time.  

“Where’d you go, soldier?” Tony pokes him in the side. “You look a little distant.”

“Was she nice?” Steve asks, and that’s not at all what he wants to say, but he’s not sure he and Tony are at the part in their friendship where he can share how much he fears the dark.

Tony blinks, caught off guard. “Was who nice?”

“Svetlana?”

“Oh. Oh, I mean. She didn’t try to kidnap or kill me, and I think that’s about all I can really ask for at this point in my life.” Tony regards Steve a bit mournfully. “It’s rough out there for us billionaires. I wasn’t kidding about her legs, though. They run for miles.”

Steve laughs because he’s supposed to. It doesn’t sound right. “I bet.”

He wonders if Tony misses Pepper Potts.

He wonders why he even cares.

* * *

 

Howard was the second person Steve ever dated, and it was less about dating and more about sex.

Howard was a really big fan of sex.

Bucky had been fond of it too, but Bucky only knew Steve when he was sickly and small. He tried too hard to be careful, not to break him, and what they had was sweet and gentle and nice.

Now, Steve’s big and strong, and it’s been quite a while since Bucky waltzed out of his life and onto the European theater. Howard, by contrast, barely knew the version of Steve Rogers that was tiny and asthmatic, the version that couldn’t run without getting winded.

The version of Steve he knew and loved – wantonly – was a man that could pin him against a wall with his pinky finger, the one who could fuck him breathless, until he was begging, pleading with Steve to let him come.

No level of debauchery was ever too much for Howard Stark, nothing too degrading, the angles of their relationship framed by passion and hedonism in a way Steve had never known.

In retrospect, it’s a bit of an achievement – having watched a man who worked on the atom bomb fall to pieces in his hands.

But at the time, it felt more like a test, like Steve was trying out all the things that his new body could do.

And if he liked the parts after, when Howard would flash him that lightning smile and a fond peck on the cheek, then Steve would never tell.

* * *

 

“What are these?” Steve frowns at the group of what appear to be high school students gathered in the common area.

They’re all very similar, in that they’re staring at their phones like they share some kind of hive-mind, the white glow of the screen reflected back in at least ten pairs of eyes.

Tony beams. “These are interns.”

“You have interns, now?”

“Pepper has interns,” Tony corrects. He doesn’t wince when he says her name. He doesn’t give any sign at all that it hurts. “She’s letting me borrow them.”

“What possible reason could you have to borrow interns? You hate it when people touch your stuff.”

“That is slander. I don’t mind it when _competent_ people touch my stuff.” He thinks on it. “Okay, maybe I do. But there are levels of competence, okay, and so few people are at mine.”

“So?” Steve prompts.

“So most people shouldn’t be touching my stuff,” Tony says, like that’s obvious.

Sometimes talking to him is like running an obstacle race.

Steve presses his palm against his forehead, briefly. Then he asks, “I mean so why do you have interns?”

“Oh! They’re from Darcy’s school.”

Steve pales. The last time Darcy swung by, she’d made it her mission in life to Instagram his every move. Steve isn’t entirely sure what Instagramming is, but he knows it involved taking a lot of photographs of his butt.

“Is Darcy here?”

“No. Which is a shame, because she’s a great drinking buddy,” Tony replies, and Steve can’t even remember if Darcy is actually old enough to drink. He holds his tongue, and Tony barrels on, “Interns, I have to talk to this handsome fellow here for a minute. Why don’t you entertain yourself with – um. What do kids these days like? Friday, play Finding Nemo-“ He pauses, because all of the interns have settled themselves into sitting positions, every face still captivated by the tiny white square of glowing screen on their laps. “That was easier than I thought it would be.”

Steve is a little miffed. He wouldn’t have minded watching Finding Nemo. It’s a good movie and- He’s distracted from the thought when Tony yawns, loud and echoing.

Steve frowns. “Tired?”

With a shrug, Tony replies, “I didn’t sleep well.”

That Steve can understand. “Nightmares?”

Tony hesitates before answering, and Steve lets him.

He won’t push. Their friendship remains on such unsteady feet.

“I still think about Pepper in the fire.” Tony says, “What I did, the way I was…I nearly got her killed.”

“Nothing AIM did was your fault.”

“Feels like it was.” Tony opens his mouth and then closes it again, like he can’t decide what to say. “They’re just nightmares, Steve.”

Steve wants to tell Tony that he gets nightmares too. That sometimes he can feel the ice emerging from his bones, spreading out to overtake the tower, the city, all of New York State. Everything inside him is glacial and gone, and he feels like one day that will catch up with him.

He knows it will.

“You’re worrying.” Tony grimaces. “I don’t blame you. I’m a walking, talking drinking problem with one of the world’s most powerful weapons in my back pocket. No, not literally, stop pawing at me, intern three!” Tony is simultaneously scandalized and intrigued, and Steve wants to protect this poor intern’s virtue but also bat their hands away from Tony’s jeans. “The point- the point is. I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

“If you’re ever not, you know, not fine. I’m here. We can talk about it.” Tony doesn’t say anything. Steve figures he’s pushed too far. So he changes the subject. “Why do you need the interns?”

“Oh, you know,” Tony says cryptically. “Reasons.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Steve says, even though he really wishes Tony would.

He is Concerned.

“I was thinking I’d take them over to R&D, maybe Applied Sciences. Let them get their hands dirty.”

Steve stares. Then he stares some more.

“You wanted…playmates?”

“Bruce is no fun.” Tony waves his hands emphatically in the air. “He’s a big, heaping green pile of no fun at all. And if he won’t entertain me, then I’ve got a whole bevvy of adoring fans who will.”

“Tony. I think Pepper wants the interns back whole.”

“You never know with her, she’s a wily one.” Tony grins. “I’ll behave. Honest, Steve. I’m just giving them the grand tour.”

“Okay,” Steve says. “I believe you.”

“That right there is your first mistake.” Tony grins, sharp toothed and always slick.

It reminds Steve of Howard, but there’s something more, a trust that he and Howard never shared. Tony has his back, even if they’re not…friends, exactly…they are partners, and equals, in a way that he never could be with Howard Stark.

That doesn’t mean Steve never thinks about kissing him. He can remember the feel of Howard’s mustache against his mouth when his lips moved, slick and dirty against his.

It’s occurred to him that Tony’s might feel the same.

That dissonance is what he hates about the twenty first century, about being here. Steve keeps trying to shove square blocks into circle shaped holes, trying so hard to figure out how everything new clicks.

The conclusion he always reaches, at the end of the day, is that it’s him who doesn’t fit.

* * *

 

Peggy was, and is, and a turning point for Steve.

She was the woman he thought he would marry.

She was the woman who wanted to marry him.

Steve had imagined a life for the two of them, a house in the suburbs and children, and a brand new start. Steve Rogers from Brooklyn would get the life he never dreamed of, the family that poor, asthmatic kid was sure he’d never have. And all with this smart, capable woman who danced right out of his dreams.

When he first woke up in this new time, under the crackle of the radio, he’d thought – he’d hoped – he could still make their date.

That hope died a slow, painful death in the blare of electric lights that had conquered Times Square.

Even now, he chokes on it; the idea that he lost his chance.

Steve worries that it’s the only one he’s ever going to have.

* * *

 

He breathes New York City like it is oxygen, when mostly it is dirt and grime and the unfamiliar blinding lights of buildings that sprang up long after he left.  

This is his country, the place that gave him life, and sometimes it feels like so much dead ground, but other days it is the flaming leaves of autumn; the sun spinning, dazzling, shimmering overhead while he splashes through the waves at Coney Island; the maze rows of corn hedges when he drove through middle America on a bike to lose himself; and the certainty of people who don’t really know fear.

Americans now are entitled, pushy, and they all seem to have grown up thinking they could inherit the earth, and maybe that’s not true, but it’s the definition of freedom, it’s what lives in their blood.

Steve loves that, the pure determination in every person he meets; to be stronger, to always live, because right now America is an empire that’s yet to fall. That can change in the blink of an eye, but until it does, every person in this place, in this city, will be exactly what they were meant to, a little wild, a little blessed, and so free that Steve can taste it on the wind.

It also makes him sad. There’s a sense of inauthenticity to being Captain America, the hopes and dreams of a country that no longer needs him draped heavy across his broad shoulders. He remembers his mom’s bedtime stories about the faerie folk, stealing children away and tastes salt on his tongue. 

“You look melancholy, baby,” Tony says.

Steve doesn’t startle.

“I wonder if I still belong here,” he admits, leaning against the windowsill.

A breeze lifts the blinds, the tower swaying under their feet.

“Where else would you belong?” Tony asks.

Steve thinks of his mother’s stories, of children carried off into Faerie. He thinks of the aircraft that carried him to the future, tucked beneath glaciers, hidden in the cold for all those years. He says, “Sorry, Tony. I didn’t mean to bring down the mood.”

“Hey.” Tony grabs Steve’s wrist. “Did I say that? You’re assuming I’m judging, when this is a judgment free tower.”

“The whole thing?”

Tony nods, earnestly. “Yep. Absolutely. I decreed it, so it’s true. What’s up?”

Steve looks out toward the city again, the rumble of life so far below. He admits, “It’s just. I never expected my life to be like this.”

“Yeah, well.” Clint appears out of nowhere and announces, “I never expected to have a deep, abiding love for the West Wing, but we all have our crosses to bear.”

Tony snorts in disgust. “Don’t you ever go home?”

“This is my home!”

“Your other home. The one where your children live.”

“Oh, them. They can only take me in small doses.”

“I can’t imagine why.” Sniffing, Tony tells him, “Steve and I were trying to have a serious talk.”

“I’m great at serious talks.” Clint jumps onto the back of the couch and, ludicrously, perches there. Like a bird. “Throw all the words at me.”

Tony eyes Steve.

Steve eyes Tony.

Steve says, “No, I think we’re good now,” and they both walk away, leaving Clint to call after them, “It’s like you guys don’t like me, or something!”

* * *

 

He tried dating Sharon, for a little while.

He wasn’t what she expected. It’s hard to live up to a hero, especially one your favorite aunt told you about in bedtime stories. And Sharon, well…

She wasn’t Bucky, or Howard, or Peggy.

Which wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.

That’s what was so damn frustrating.

* * *

 

Miss Potts can run a board room like a general leads a charge, but as far as Steve can tell, the entire concept of chain of command continues to elude Tony. He fidgets his way through a meeting with the powers that be, Hill and her cronies at one end of the table, and the rest of the team at the other.

Every time anyone says something Tony objects to, he makes a rude noise, until finally Hill says, “Hush, Stark. The grownups are talking.”

Steve snickers beneath his breath, but Tony tells him, “Laugh it up. I’m not the only one sitting at the kiddie table.”

“Gentlemen,” Maria says, in her no-nonsense voice. Steve immediately straightens, attentive, and he can feel Tony snicker beside him. “We’re releasing Sergeant Barnes into your custody.”

Steve’s heart leaps to his throat, because this is it. The moment he’s been waiting for ever since he first saw Bucky in the twenty first century.

That moment, over a year ago now, was like a revelation.

Steve never stopped feeling that Bucky was out there – that he must be out there. It made him think he was crazy for those last days of the war, this certainty that hooked beneath his sternum and wouldn’t let go. It was a thousand times worse waking up, after the ice, because how could it ever be true? Steve had thought that was the scary thing about insanity – how sane he still felt, in the depths of it.

But now he knows he wasn’t deluding himself at all. Now Bucky is coming home, to him.

“Isn’t that something,” Tony muses. He spins his chair around to face Steve, fingers stroking his goatee. “James Buchanan Barnes, the guy who blew up half of D.C. Think old Jimmy will give me his autograph?”

“Bucky,” Steve corrects. “His name is Bucky.”

“Nah. I think we should call him Jimmy.”

“That’s not his name,” Steve insists, hackles raised.

Tony touches his hand, sympathy writ large across his expressive face. Steve remembers all over again that Bucky murdered his parents. That he changed Tony’s _entire world_.

But Tony took his pound of flesh for that. He doesn’t blame Steve. Not anymore. Gently, he says, “Some odd seventy years of brainwashing aren’t that easily undone. Bucky Barnes died years ago, Steve.”

Steve shrugs him off. “Everyone deserves a second chance, Tony,” Steve says. “Anyone can be brand new.”

“Yeah, well.” Tony bites off something that is probably an insult, and in that moment Steve misses Howard, who never looked at him with so much doubt.

He misses Howard, and Bucky, and his mother – especially her.

She believed in honesty and hard work. She couldn’t abide cruelty.

And more than anything else, Sarah Rogers believed in goodness. She would believe that Bucky was himself, again.

She would believe that this was going to work.

* * *

 

This isn’t going to work, Steve thinks with dismay, as Tony prepares to swoop over New York City in his shining, gold and red suit. “Tony, what are you doing?”

“Saving the day. It’s in the superhero job description. God, haven’t you read our website?”

“We have a website? Wait, no, not important.” Steve rakes his hands through his hair and takes a deep breath, which he’s found is always best before dealing with a Stark. “You’re injured.”

Tony is. Badly. Their fight yesterday with some kind of super powered bunny rabbit ended embarrassingly for all of them, but most of all for Tony, who’s got a few broken ribs and bruises down half his body.

“Then today is a day that ends in y.” Tony raises his faceplate and gives Steve the most blasé expression he can muster up. He must practice it in mirrors, because no one’s face pulls of arrogance, antipathy, and boredom quite so naturally. Tony’s eyes reflect back the lights of the city, skyscrapers and moonless sky. He says, “I’m going.”

“No.”

“Uh, yes.”

Frustrated, Steve says, “Tony, the team’s already out there. We’ve got the situation under control. We don’t need you.”

He knows he’s said the wrong thing the moment the words are out of his mouth, but it’s too late. Tony juts out his chin. “Try and stop me.”

Steve steps up to the challenge. Literally, he’s up in Tony’s face before he can even process that he’s moved. “You really want me to do that?”

Fuck, he’s using his Captain America voice. This is not how he wanted this to go down.

“Tough guy,” Tony snarls back. “Tell me you don’t plan on going down there.”

Steve frowns. So maybe he has a broken arm from their last fight. It’s healing.

“I bounce back more quickly. You know that.” Embarrassment makes his tone rough. “You’ve got a life and a company. Think about that before you go running headlong into a suicide mission.”

“Look, I’m not a super soldier, and not all of us got to cryogenically freeze our youth. Big deal.” The words are harsh, uncalled for in every single way, and maybe that’s why Tony tumbles over himself to continue, “No matter what you think, Iron Man’s not some big ticket publicity stunt.” He smacks his hand against the center of his chest, creating a dull thud between metal and flesh. “As long as my heart’s still beating, I’m going out there.”

Steve gapes at him, hoarfrost coating the inside of his throat.

Every time he thinks he’s got things figured out, Tony barges right in, a wrecking ball of a man, and rearranges Steve’s insides until they’re not really recognizable any more.

Wounded and raw, he speaks into the comms. “Guys, prepare for incoming. Iron Man’s readying the calvary.”

There’s static, and then:

“He’s an actual broken human being. I saw his x-rays,” Clint howls in accusation. “Why didn’t you try to stop him?”

Sam snorts. “Like Steve could. I think it’s time to install an off switch on that man.”

“He’ll be fine,” Natasha replies. “We can always use him as a human shield.”

“Thanks, team. I can hear all of you,” Tony says conversationally. For a second, he and Steve are perched under the starlight, strangers in strange times, with unnatural abilities. They’re prepped to cause chaos, wherever they go.

They’re his mother’s fairytales.

And then Tony is diving backwards off the building, whooping, “Clint, duck!”

There’s a whirr of machinery, and then Clint’s yelling again.

It takes a full minute for Steve to realize he’s still standing at the top of Avengers Tower, watching the space Tony vacated.

* * *

 

Steve stands on the threshold of Tony’s workshop for a long time, watching the other man work. And wince. And then work some more.

He’s still sore. Worse than before, probably.

But he insists on hammering out the details on some new tech for Widow, fixing up some kind of fancy extra limbs for Peter, and generally doing everything he can to help. He’s incredibly dedicated that way.

Steve’s torn between admiration and annoyance that the guy won’t just go to bed, like a normal invalid.

Then there’s the fact that, as he watches Tony’s hands work, Steve finds himself wanting to kiss the pale underside of his arms. He really doesn’t really know what to do with that.

After a few minutes in which he’s starting to feel increasingly creepy, Dummy hums up to him, a flurry of wheels and shiny metal and some kind of tiny hat perched on the crook of his joints.

Fondly, Steve tells the robot, “You’re looking good.”

“Don’t compliment him, Captain. He’ll get airs.” Tony spins on his padded stool. He clearly knows Steve’s been lurking. His shoulders straighten, and he says, “Hey. I’m sorry about what happened back there.”

Steve watches him, warily. “I was trying to help.”

“I know that.”

“You know that, but…You always have to lash out, don’t you? You always have to fight the world, even when there’s no battle to be had.”

He expects the argument to start back up and wishes he’s held his tongue.

Instead, Tony’s quiet.

Quiet for a long, long time, and when he finally speaks, it’s measured, and forceful. “You’re wrong,” he says, and he’s wearing that fiercely determined expression he gets when nothing and no one can argue him down. “I’m not fighting the world. I’m fighting _me_.”

Steve opens his mouth, a retort ready on his lips.

Only, it dies there, because he has no idea how to respond to that. His hackles smooth down, and he tries, “That’s understandable. You’ve had a hard go of it.”

“Cap.” Tony stretches the kinks from his shoulder, and Steve determinedly does not watch the way his muscles move beneath his skin. “You can’t keep giving me a free pass like that.”

“Why not?” Steve reasons. “The past few years have been rough. Your heart. Ultron. Rhodey. Pepper.”

“Don’t bring Pepper into it.”

“She hurt you,” Steve protests, because despite all of Tony’s announcements that he’s single and ready to mingle, he hasn’t brought anyone home for a long while.

Not that Steve’s keeping count.

“Sure, she hurt me. Plenty of people have hurt me – getting hurt is part of the fucking human condition.”

“Maybe.” Steve bites his lip. “But you shouldn’t blame yourself.”

“How can I not? It’s me that people are walking away from.”

“Tony-“

“Logically, I get it. They’re still people, who make choices, and what they do can’t all be on me.” He shakes his head. “This isn’t even the point. What’s on me, what I can’t get past are the mistakes I’ve made, and there’s a lot – more than you can count, so don’t even bother.”

“Is this- is this about Afghanistan? Your weapons-“

“My weapons. My weapons!” Tony laughs harshly. “My company didn’t stop making weapons because I think weapons are the devil,” Tony says. “We stopped because they were ending up in the wrong hands.”

Steve knows that. A man doesn’t build armored suits or peacekeeping robots if he doesn’t like things that go _boom_. He says, “Then I don’t understand. What’s so bad about you?”

Tony frowns down at his hands, grease coated and spotted with black. He replies, “Everything.”

Steve thinks that maybe he’s not the only one who doesn’t feel like he fits. Without meaning to, he blurts, “If you’re so sad, why don’t you just give up?”

Tony snorts. “Because miracles happen.”

The look Steve gives him is nothing short of incredulous. “I didn’t know you believed in God.”

“ _Cap_. I’m not talking about the grandiose, all-encompassing miracles in the good book,” Tony scoffs, and Steve thinks of his mother pouring over her bible, the worn leather against her torn fingertips. “It’s the small ones that matter. For me, it’s things like a phone call from an old friend, or doing well at something I thought I’d fuck up. Winning a fight that seemed unwinnable, maybe. It makes it feel like I’m not conquered, not yet.”

“Tony,” Steve says, maybe just a little bit in awe.

Tony shifts, clearly uncomfortable with how touchy-feely the conversation has gotten. “That’s why you never surrender either, right?”

“What?”

“You hate this place.” He gestures grandly around the workshop. “The future. I can see it on your face, sometimes.”

“It’s…lonely,” Steve allows, not sure if he should say that to the man who welcomed Steve into his home, welcomed him back to the team, and now is slowly, slowly letting Steve see a part of him that he keeps so carefully hidden. But he owes Tony honest, if nothing else.

Tony bares his teeth. “Well. Miracles happen, Rogers. So don’t give up. I know a guy who’d be really bummed to see you go. And then, knowing me, I’d probably blame it on myself.”

“Selfish to the last,” Steve laughs. It’s genuine.

Tony smiles, and there’s sincerity in that too. Miracles, right? “You betcha.”

He’s nothing like Howard at all, Steve thinks. He is so, so much _more_.

It hangs in the air between them, the intensity Steve feels for Tony then. Maybe he senses it, because Tony shifts awkwardly.

Steve does too.

Then Tony says, “Say, have you tried pizza at that place down the street yet?”

“One dollar pizza?”

“I’m a billionaire. I don’t eat pizza that costs less than twenty bucks. Not ever. And I like it when it comes with those fancy little mushrooms.”

Steve chuckles, even as he marvels at this, at him. He used to hate men like Tony Stark, but now hate isn’t even close to the word that he feels. “I’d love to get some pizza.”

“With fancy little mushrooms.”

“With no mushrooms.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“Please?” Tony bats his eyes.

“You’re ridiculous. Fine,” Steve huffs. “We can get the mushrooms.”

* * *

 

Bucky falls back into his bed the same way they started, but it’s doesn’t last.

Steve’s certain now that these things never do.

Not for him.

* * *

 

The end comes on a Saturday night. They’re at a charity gala.

Steve’s never liked these things. The sheer opulence of the banquet hall makes him feel small and grubby, even in the ridiculously expensive threads Tony handpicked for him. He should have stayed home.

He scuffs his shoe against the marble floor, so shiny that he can see his own reflection, and tugs at the collar of his tux.

Gosh, it’s hard to breathe in here.

“Hey there, soldier. You on leave?”

Bucky’s arm across Steve’s shoulder is a comfort. He sags into Bucky’s weight. “I hate it here.”

“You never were into the dog and pony shows,” Bucky concedes. His breath tickles Steve’s ear.

Up front, Tony is charming the crowd with a talk about the Stark Foundation’s targeted impact philanthropy. His interns have their camera phones out, tiny Tonys captured on all of their screens.

The rich men that Steve met during the war had soft hands and softer wits, but Tony’s – as he waves them frenetically – are angular, callused, and his mind is sharp as a razor blade. He doesn’t belong here, in these genteel crowds. He’s all teeth, smile positively feral.

Pepper stands next to him, a crease between her eyebrows indicative of consternation and affection in equal turns. She still loves him, clearly.

If only she could love Iron Man, too.

Tony needs that, Steve thinks. Someone who cares for the way his two identities fit into a whole.

He goes too long without responding. Bucky pokes his cheek with one sleek, metal finger. “You really like him.”

It’s not a question. He’s been caught out staring, and it isn’t the first time.

“I admire him,” Steve admits.

“It’s more than that.” A stubborn note enters Bucky’s voice.

“Are you jealous?” Steve teases, the words thin. He feels guilty, and he’s not even certain why. Or, he’s very certain why, and it’s making him defensive. “I’m with you, Buck.”

“But maybe you shouldn’t be.”

“ _Bucky_!”

“You even don’t get it, do you?” Bucky laughs harshly, dropping his arm away from Steve. “ _I don’t blame you_. You belonged to me when we were both men, but now…Now, we’re something more, you and I. And you don’t want a man. You want a hero. That’s not me, Steve. That’s never going to be me.”

“Don’t say that,” Steve says, because in so many ways, Bucky was his hero, as a kid.

But he’s also right.

They’ve grown past that, grown up, and without even meaning to, Steve started looking for someone who could match Captain America, blow for blow, good work for good work.

There’s only one possible contender, there, and they both know it.

“Go back to Tony Stark,” Bucky tells him. “Go back to the life you really want.”

“I don’t want a life without you in it,” Steve says, as honest as he knows how to be.

“You don’t even know me.”

“I’ll always know you, Bucky.” 

Bucky shrugs. “Yeah. But right now I need to go get to know a bottle of vodka. You seen Natasha?”

Steve swallows. “I think she’s out on the balcony.”

Bucky blinks, and for just a moment, Steve thinks his eyes are damp. Then he says, “Catch you later, kid.”

Decades from the start, that’s how things with Bucky draw to a close.

* * *

 

Steve doesn’t mope long, because despite everything else, Bucky is his best friend.

He drags Steve to every borough, the both of them exploring their new world. And when he’s not around Sam fills in the blanks with basketball games or old, classic movies or a concert, once or twice, even though Steve doesn’t understand music these days, or why it’s so goshdarned loud.

No one lets Steve dwell. Wanda and Vision drag him to cooking lessons, and Clint tries to teach him the bow. He gives up when Steve has no trouble at all mastering it, and spends at least a week baying to anyone who will listen, “ _Life is just unfair, you know_?”

The same thing happens when he goes drinking with Darcy and Scott, but they’re too hungover to reach Clint’s tremulous pitch.

Natasha takes him on friendly dates to the local art museums, and Steve loses himself more than once basking in the luxury that is the Frick. His friends, his team, turn the world into a place that is no longer unfamiliar, and at the very center of it all is Tony.

Tony, prattling on about suit specs in his workshop, or forcing Steve to smile pretty for _one more camera, promise, this will make the nightly news, Cap_. Tony, pushing every button he has every time they’re in the field, because he’s still easing into this whole teamwork thing.

Tony, grumbling over his coffee in the mornings and pushing dimsum across the table in the evenings, when they’re all gathered around the big screen tossing back popcorn and trying to see who can aggravate Bruce enough into turning the teensiest bit green.

Tony from every angle, a pushy, loud, wonderful miracle of a man. He makes Steve feel like he can fit in this time, in this strange little family of theirs.

It’s heroic. It’s endearing.

So Steve can’t say Bucky was wrong. Not really.

* * *

 

And yet…

Despite long months of Steve doing the polar opposite of moping, Tony insists on not believing any of it.

“You’re Captain America. These maidenly tears are unseemly. Get some fresh air,” he says, like Steve doesn’t go on morning jogs while he’s still tucked away in bed.

With Bucky, in point of fact, but try telling Tony that.

“Don’t you have interns to harass?”

Tony frowns. “Pepper fired the interns. They spent too much time on their phones.”

“Is that really the reason they’re gone?”

“No, they all had to pick up a heavier course load and they _left me_. I’m never hiring grad students again.”

“You’re handling it well,” Steve replies, amused.

“Is this what the world is coming to? Captain America mocks other people’s misfortune? Woe to the unwashed masses.”

“Do you plan what comes out of your mouth, or do you improvise as you go along?”

Tony flashes a pearly white grin. “All unscripted, baby. Now out, out, into the light?”

“I appreciate the concern, but I’m fine, Tony. Really.”

“I know that.” Tony rolls his eyes skyward, where Steve imagines Friday lives and judges their every move. “But the faux concern makes an excellent excuse to spend time with the man, the legend. Uh…you. In case that wasn’t clear.”

“Why would you need an excuse? We’re friends.”

“Are we?” Tony scratches behind his neck distractedly. Steve guesses he’s thinking about the wiring up there in the ceiling in tandem with this entire conversation. “I wasn’t sure.”

“Tony, I know we’ve had our differences…”

“Not what I meant.” Tony flaps his hands in the air, trying to ward off incoming emotions. “We’re friends, we’re teammates. We’re colleagues. But, wow. Fuck, I am usually a hundred and ten percent smoother than this, Cap, you gotta believe me.”

“Spit it out,” Steve prods, his heart kicking up a few extra beats.

Tony, to his credit, doesn’t back down. “I’ve seen you looking at me, is the thing.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?” Tony crosses his arms, unease spreading across his face. “You’re going to have to give me more than _oh_.”

“You’re not wrong,” Steve says carefully.

“Oh.” Tony’s arms drop. He says, “I don’t want to besmirch Captain America’s honor. I’ve got enough black marks on my record. But for what it’s worth? You make my day better.”

Stepping in, Steve asks, “That so?”

“It is.” Tony raises his chin.

He’s a different man than the self-assured, collected guy who struts off on dates with supermodels. He’s baring something of himself, and it’s as brave as Steve has ever seen him.

“Even when we fight?”

“I have a better time fighting with you than I do doing…just about anything.”

“But you don’t want to besmirch me.”

“Poor wording.” Tony flinches when Steve steps even closer, taking up oxygen in Tony’s airspace. He’s standing like he’s ready for a fight. “You should date guys like Jimmy, or girls like Sharon. They’re more your speed.”

“That’s assuming a lot about my speed, isn’t it?”

“More about mine.” Tony makes an abrasive noise. “All I wanted was for you to know that I’ve seen you looking, and I’m flattered. I’m not expecting anything.”

Of course he’s not expecting anything. No one is harder on Tony than Tony himself.

Steve slips a hand through his hair, trying not to tug on it. “You know what I like about you Tony?”

“Everything,” Tony says immediately, but he follows with a wince and a, “Sorry, force of habit. Hmm. My indomitable optimism?”

“That,” Steve agrees, placing his hands on Tony’s hips. Tony’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t back away. If anything, he leans in. “And everything.”

Tony’s eyes get even wider.

He murmurs, “This is a bad idea.”

Steve’s thumbs rub slow circles against the skin above the waistband Tony’s jeans. There’s this tightness in his throat, a sweet, sad thing he can’t quite swallow down. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Tony manages to look acutely uncomfortable, ashamed, and desperately hopeful all at once. “Never said you were.”

“Tony.” Steve digs his thumbs in, making sure Tony can feel them against his bones, branding him with tiny points of black-blue that will take a near week to fade.

Tony arches into it, searching for affirmation.

Steve knows men like this, who need an ache to keep on living, and yet Steve’s never quite known a man like Tony. He tells him, “I’m going to kiss you.”

Tony nods, a bit desperate. “I think I’d like that.”

“I hope you do,” Steve agrees, his lips already brushing Tony’s.

Tony surges into it, his arms up and around Steve’s neck, mouth parting hot and slick and wet. When Steve licks into him, Tony opens further, moaning Steve’s name in a way he’s never heard.

And well.

Steve Rogers might never have been meant to breathe this time’s air or pace its ground. But heck if he’s not convinced in this moment and forever after that he’s exactly where he needs to be.

**Author's Note:**

> The Saga: I started this in, god, like 2013, before Winter Soldier came out. And then I worked on it here and there, distracted by other projects, new movies, etc. That clearly affected the text (hi, SHIELD 2.0, yes, I know you are a cop-out). HOWEVER, I still wanted to shove this out into the world. So it happened. If not as elegantly as it should have. 
> 
> My excuse is that I already wrote fic about how Civil War was a cop-out, and the team coming back together )that could probably prequel this kind of, sans the SHIELD 2.0 and the kiss at the end), if you REALLY want to excuse me being lazy. But no, honestly, I'm just lazy. 
> 
> Thanks to breila-rose for doing a quick beta and validating all my emotions at every turn.


End file.
